


A Two Sided, Cracked, Mirror

by AmateurScribes



Series: Bad Things Happen (to Grif) Bingo [11]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biff is Grif, Identity Issues, Jealousy, Loss of Identity, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, One-Sided Attraction, Possessive Behavior, Unrequited Love, missing and presumed dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 03:03:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16945770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmateurScribes/pseuds/AmateurScribes
Summary: It's an uneasy state, being told your name is one thing, but knowing in your heart that it's wrong and fake.But he can't explain how he knows that maybe, just maybe, Grif isn't actually his name. But at the same time, he has no name to fill the gap.So he's just Grif.





	A Two Sided, Cracked, Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> I'm starting to get back to the Bingo prompts! I had a lot of fun with this one, as it was a nice way to flow back into these prompts. I'm not currently accepting since I have so many to catch up on, but I should be getting a lot of these done now that I don't have too many responsibilities. This is un-Beta'd, so all mistakes are mine. I hope you guys enjoy the story.

Waking up, at first, is a struggle. His eyelids feel like lead as he tries to pry them open, and the tiny slits that he can manage are blinded by bright white lights. Closing his eyes, he tries again.

The light is just as blinding, but he manages to look around and notes that he's in a hospital. The strong smell of chemicals permeate in the air, and the sheet on top on him feels rough against his arms and skin.

He doesn't remember how he got in the hospital, and trying to sit up, he feels a sharp pain in his abdomen. He cringed and curled in.

What had he gotten wrapped up in?

He tries to think back, think on how he got injured, but all he's coming up with was blanks. He remembers needing to get back to Earth and- and-

He doesn't know why he only knows that it was important.

Before he can think anymore, a doctor comes in. His face is stern, no emotion plastered on his face, holding the clipboard with a firm grip.

He moved about the hospital room, checking his vitals, and other stuff that's beyond his knowledge. The doctor ignored his presence until he had finished what he needed to do, finally turning to him.

"I need to ask you a few questions," his voice was monotonous. "Standard procedure I assure you."

He didn't know if he should respond to that, but the doctor didn't continue, so he gave a small nod in response.

"Can you remember your own name," the doctor looked down at his clipboard, but he could see how his eyes were predatory, watching his response.

And he-

He couldn't answer.

His thoughts were sluggish and muddled, and he thought that this question should be easy- of course, he knew his own name. Why wouldn't he?

But nothing came up, and he strained himself trying to remember. It was at the tip of his tongue, and he felt like he _knew_ what it was but he couldn't for the life of him spit it out.

"I-" he tried to say, but stopped. Nothing he did brought it to the forefront of his mind.

"Your name is Dexter Grif," the doctor cut him off. "Don't worry if you can't remember it now, it's most likely due to the drugs we have you under. Your injuries were quite grave, you must understand."

"What happened to me," he rasped out. It hurt to speak, his throat was dry and rough.

"I'm asking the questions right now Mr. Grif," the doctor said, writing down something on his clipboard.

That name. Grif. It felt wrong but familiar. Like it was close to being right- like it was almost his name. Close, but no cigar and all.

But he couldn't think of his own name. And the doctor, who surely had all of his medical records, would know better than a patient who couldn't remember how he got hurt, or anything else for that matter.

"Do you know your own age, Mr. Grif," the doctor continued.

"No," he answered honestly.

And it continued like that, for nearly every question the doctor had for him.

He knew nothing, but the doctor had all the answers.

"You'll need to go through basic training again," the doctor concluded. "While normally we would let you have a brief period to recover, you must understand that we are experiencing a shortage of Red Soldiers at the moment, and the Red Army cannot spare the expense."

He nodded numbly, after all, there wasn't much else he could do.

And a part of him wanted to argue, wanted to adamantly demand that they discharge him- send him back to Earth. There was someone waiting for him back home- and he had to urgently get back to that someone.

But he couldn't remember who they were, or why they meant so much to him.

It felt like he was being returned to the world a completely blank slate, with just a name that felt as wrong as putting on a coat two sizes too big and a gun in his hand. Going back to being a soldier in a sea of other red soldiers, and he alone felt out of place.

And he- _Grif-_ had never felt so lost.

And the doctor left, and he dreamt of a crackling fire warm against a cold desert night.

* * *

It's been years and his name still felt wrong on his body. But there were other more important things to think about.

Like how the others had been duped into helping a bunch of murderous maniacs. Like how he'd been left alone on Iris, to think about a lot of things and nothing at all.

Like how Locus had arrived with Lopez to convey the gang's distress call. And how he was one of the only ones who could save them.

And that was a lot to put on his shoulders.

But it was small in comparison to the name that kept bouncing around in his head.

Temple.

The leader of the Blues and Reds, the discount Reds and Blues.

And that name alone, it rattled him to his core, and it just wouldn't leave his mind.

How could one name cause so much turmoil for him? A name that bothered him almost on par with his own.

It was a mystery to him, and a part of him wanted to figure it out more than his desire to save his friends. And maybe that was selfish of him.

But he didn't care.

The desert that he and Locus arrive at hits him in the chest with such familiarity that he stops breathing for a second.

It feels like he's been here before, but he knows that he never has. The whispers of sand that he's heard for so many years, he had convinced himself that it was the lingering sensations of some beach on Earth.

Now- now he's not so sure.

But he can't linger on it for too long, he can't just stand around and investigate every nook and cranny of the canyon.

As much as the curiosity burns inside of him, he knows that he has to put the mission to save his friends first.

Apparently, they arrived late enough that Temple and his posse had already left.

A part of him is angry that he'd missed the chance to confront the figure that haunted his waking thoughts at the moment. And another part is glad- that part is scared of the confrontation. It aches with the thought of becoming face to face with this man as if some part of him missed someone he never knew.

Everything goes to shit anyway, and Wash gets shot, and Locus has to abandon them in favor of getting him immediate medical help.

And somehow he's the one responsible for cheering on Tucker.

But Tucker is standing around a campfire, a cozy little corner of the canyon left untouched by all the conflict that's happened. And every step that he takes towards it, feels like he's taking a step closer and closer to a different time, a time where everything made sense.

He tries his best to give Tucker his confidence back, and it has nothing to do with the unease he felt by having to stand next to him at this site- feeling like the aqua soldier was encroaching on a spot that was inherently not his- and everything to do with the Earth being in danger.

Protecting the Earth was important- there were innocent families and people living and thriving on the planet. Wives, and children-

His head ached at the thought, and he has to force himself not to raise his hand to his head, lest it clinks against the visor of his helmet.

So they go to Earth, and seeing the planet from orbit is painful- he looks at it, and his heart longs for it.

It's hard to miss something that he doesn't remember. Sure, they may have told Grif everything about himself all those years ago in the hospital- where he was born, and his family, and a whole bunch of other things. But he has no connection to that, no memories to tack to the board that makes up his life, with no string tied to attach anything together. Dexter Grif is a collection of pictures and facts that don't add up and don't belong, but he can't dispute it because if he doesn't have himself, then what does he have?

Nothing.

He'd have nothing.

And without the Earth, he'd have even less.

So he does his best to protect it- even if it means fighting against a bunch of nameless and faceless soldiers, adorned in blue and red. Even if it means charging into the base to face down the Blues and Reds, even if it means staying silent as each pair faced off against their doppelganger, stepping in when needed, feeling awkward and out of place.

It didn't take a lot for him to notice that the Blues and Reds didn't have an orange soldier of their own. But the Reds and Blues had lost their own version of Temple long ago anyway.

And he's making an effort to become more heroic, and that's how he confronts Temple for the first time. Staring down from high above, looking down at the blue figure who had his friends frozen, but not him or Simmons.

And he loses his grip and he falls on his way down, and he clashes hard against the ground, his helmet tumbling off in a series of furious thuds.

It's as he's lifting his head, his tangled blond curls obscuring his view, that he hears a gasp from the man whose name refused to leave his thoughts.

"Biff," he whispered. "You- you're alive?"

He's too shocked to say anything, propped against the floor, his arms braced against the concrete,  looking up at a man who sounds more familiar.

That name-

"How is this possible," Temple's hand lowers, the remote falls with it.

The reporter woman is looking between the two of them, not daring to make a move in case the situation becomes hostile again.

"What are you even talking about," Tucker growls from his frozen position.

"Shut up," Temple snaps, finally looking away from Grif.

Grif takes that time to get up off the floor, he stands across from Temple, not bothering to grab his helmet. He takes a step towards the others, but Temple's helmet snaps back towards him and he halts his movements.

"Biff, come on," Temple pleads. "Just say something- _anything_ so that I know it's you."

Before he can open his mouth to respond, Simmons speaks up, "Stop calling him that- that's not his name!"

"Yes, it is!" Temple clenches his fist tightly around the remote. "Say another word and I'll kill you where you stand."

"Don't speak to Simmons that way," and it's the first time that he's spoken up so far.

Temple looks his way, and his voice wavers as he says, "It's- it's really you. Your voice- I'd recognize your voice anywhere."

"Voice doesn't mean anything," Dylan speaks up, her body tense as she tries not to attract Temple's ire. "Simmons and Gene sound exactly alike-"

"But they don't look alike," Temple growls. "And I'd know what Biff looks like- I grew up with him! I'd be able to recognize him even with all the-" and here he gestured vaguely. "Skin grafts that he has. That's Biff."

Temple looked straight at him.

"Tell me you remember me," he asks. "Please."

"I've never met you before today," he admits, and it tastes like a lie on his mouth.

He feels conflicted because that name- Biff- it feels much more like him than Grif ever could. But he's been Grif for years now- and he doesn't really know who Biff is either.

To shed one coat that doesn't fit for another that does but doesn't belong to him? It feels wrong- everything feels wrong.

Temple is silent, only for a moment, before roaring in anger, "Freelancer did this! They did something to you! They made it so you couldn't remember me!"

Whirling around, he aims to kick something, kicking the powering up machine hard as he yells, "Carolina must know! I bet she laughs when she thinks about it- she _stole_ my best friend from me, and kept him to herself!"

"Dude, what the hell are you even talking about?" Tucker sounds confused, but the underlying anger against Temple for what happened to Wash is still present.

"Carolina killed you," Temple imploringly looks at Grif. "At least- that's what I always assumed, but no- _no._ Freelancer just collected your body and somehow you weren't dead- but they did something to you and now you don't _know who I am."_

"You need to calm down," Grif says, trying to move closer to the deranged man. A part of him wanted to embrace the man, the other strangle him. Two sides of his body in conflict over how to treat the man who didn't care about the consequences of his actions so long as he got his revenge.

In a movement too quick for Grif to intercept, Temple lunges for him, grabbing both of his arms tightly, the armor plates creaking from the strength of his grip.

"You have to remember me," Temple pleaded. "After everything we've been through-"

Leaning his head back, his eyes went wide, and he tried to get out of the grip, saying, "Listen, I get that you think I'm this person, but-"

"This is all Georgina's fucking fault!" Temple blurted, shaking Grif slightly, and from his peripherals he can see Simmons and Dylan flinch, trying to hold themselves back from intervening. "If that bitch hadn't gotten pregnant then you wouldn't have been trying to get discharge-"

"Wait," the name pounded against his skull in the same way that Temple's and his own- and he was beginning to believe that maybe Biff was his name- maybe once long ago. "Who?"

Temple's grip went lax at that as if surprised at his question.

"You," he started slowly. "You don't know who Georgina is?"

Before he could respond, Temple let go of him to cackle, a full body action that had him curled inwards, shaking.

"It's what she deserves!" he continues to laugh, deranged and unraveling. "She did this to you! It's only fitting that you forget her and that bastard child!"

"What the fuck is your problem?" slips past his mouth, and he feels defensive, for this unnamed woman.

"My problem is that she took you away from me," and suddenly Temple isn't laughing anymore. "She took your affections, that should have gone to _me,_ and it was her that caused you to forget _everything-_ even yourself. She deserves to rot in your memories with the rest of us."

"You're delusional," the man before him, disgusts him.

"Maybe," he admits. "But maybe you forgetting about her is a good thing. Maybe we can start over on a clean slate- after I finish with all the Freelancer's and the UNSC, we can fix everything again."

"Not if I have anything to say about it," and he tackles the other man, fighting for control of the remote, his head smashing against the others visor, causing a web crack to appear. The remote slides out of both of their hands, and he sees Dylan picking it up.

He's aware that everyone is free from their armor lock, but he's focusing on the crack on Temple's visor. Pieces of glass fall away, revealing a frigid blue eye, dark circles as embroidery around the eye.

And he's sent back to a time when he saw those eyes look at him with nothing but adoration, and he feels his grip get softer, but he's still on top of the other man. They've both stopped fighting, but a quick look up shows that something has happened with the machine- two identical blue soldiers standing next to each other, one he knows as Caboose, and the other a phantasma of the past.

"I'm sorry," Temple mutters, looking directly at him. "Everything I ever did, I did it for you."

"I never asked for any of this," he responded.

And he really didn't.

He didn't ask to have no clue about who he was- juggling between two names with neither fitting more than the other. He didn't ask to have imprints of times he could never grasp, memories of who he was before whatever it was that made him forget everything.

There's Dexter Grif and then there's Biff, and they blur into each other, but they didn't. They were adjacent but parallel, and it was a confusing mess that made his head pound in anger.

He doesn't know how long they stay there, ignoring everything else going on. But at one point, they ease off of each other, never breaking eye contact, like they were seeing each other for the same time.

The others are still distracted by the machine, and Temple tells him, "They're either going to kill me or arrest me, and I'm never going to see you ever again."

"I'm not who you think I am," he says on reflex.

"Not yet you're not," Temple looks behind him and sees that everything is almost resolved. "Leave with me."

"No," and the answer is simple. Because he won't collude with a criminal, no matter how connected at one point they used to be.

"I'll see you soon," Temple promises, and he aims to sneak away, but Tucker catches him, with Carolina arriving just in time to convince him to spare Temple's life.

And nobody asks Grif about what happened. To them it was a simple matter of an unhinged man thinking him to be someone else- after all, Gene had been so similar to Simmons it wasn't hard to mistake the two.

And maybe he was going crazy, maybe Temple did mistake him for someone else.

But his head raged with the thought that he was Grif and Grif alone.

He wanted answers and the full story. He wanted to know who Georgina was to him, and a part of him felt bad that he couldn't care about this woman as Grif, and he wanted to know why Freelancer had been so insistent to erase Biff.

There were too many things that made him feel as though he were unbalanced.

He would only get answers from one person. That person being behind bars.

But, a promise was a promise after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun trying to work with this idea- because I really, _really_ liked the idea behind this prompt. My only gripe with this story is that I had to sit down and really think on how to tag this fic because I in no way wanted to confuse people with this one. I'll try my best to get more of these out, but I can't make any promises.
> 
> If you want to ask a question or just talk, my Tumblr's are: @agent-murica (main) and @amateurscribes (writing)!


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